Meet Me at the Crossroads

The moon is pale, but a sliver in the cold black of the night sky. No stars shine here; they havenâ€™t in a long time. They havenâ€™t since I came. The air is cold, cold like death, but the whisper of wind murmurs of hope and chances. Hope and chances that only I can offer. The man comes like all the others, with the little box he doesnâ€™t quite believe in but desperately hopes holds some kind of truth. He digs a shallow grave in the middle of the crossroads, murmurs a prayer to a God that isnâ€™t here, then stands. Thatâ€™s my cue. The breeze swirls and gives me shape, a pale, beautiful girl in a white dress that reveals more than it hides; a girl with long dark hair and the crimson eyes of the devil. I smile, and itâ€™s not friendly. The man is pale and shaking; his fear tastes like tender steak, his desire like rich red wine. â€śI needâ€¦I need your help,â€ť he stammers, as if I didnâ€™t know this already. People donâ€™t come to me to chat. â€śWhat can I give you?â€ť I ask huskily, walking slowly around him. I murmur temptations as I circle my prey. â€śFame? Fortune? The girl of your dreams?â€ť I sense a hitch in his breathing at that last one, and a slow, predatory smile curves my luscious lips. â€śSo itâ€™s love you seek. Loveâ€™s not hard; love is easy. All it takes is desire. Love is just another name for lust.â€ť â€śI want my Monica to love me,â€ť he whispers, wringing his hands. Itâ€™s not hard to see why Monica doesnâ€™t love him; who could love this sniveling shadow of a man? But hopeless, lost souls like him are what I thrive on. Theyâ€™re what I need, what I desire. Theyâ€™re the easiest to break. I catch his chin in my fingers, my sharp nails cutting the skin and causing a droplet of scarlet blood to fall to the dusty earth at our feet. â€śShe will love you,â€ť I whisper sensuously. â€śShe will love you for ten long, beautiful years. And when those ten years are up â€“ Iâ€™ll collect whatâ€™s due.â€ť â€śYes, please, thank you!â€ť He doesnâ€™t even ask what Iâ€™ll collect. The fool. Well, heâ€™ll know when those ten years are up. I lean forward, and I kiss him, pressing my soft lips against his thin mouth. Our deal, sealed with a kiss. Deals of passion must be sealed with passion. Sometimes, I almost wish I could feel it.

Subscribe

Get Teen Inkâ€™s 48-page monthly print edition. Written by teens since 1989.